


The Seer

by GalekhXigisi



Series: The Seer's Story (and bits) [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Richie Tozier Has Powers, Trans Richie Tozier, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-10 03:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21465034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Richie used to be Number Seventeen.
Relationships: Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier
Series: The Seer's Story (and bits) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547344
Comments: 13
Kudos: 80





	1. Prologue

Maggie Tozier was a woman who took life as it came. She took it in a stride, albeit slowly if it were particularly harrowing. She had taken her fiance’s proposal with wide, teary eyes, their wedding not even established yet but their home already picked out and honeymoon not happening. The only reason they weren’t doing a honeymoon was because Maggie wanted a small wedding with just their families (Maggie’s sister, Wentworth’s parents) and a couple of their friends, so it would be no more than ten people there with them. Wentworth had agreed, knowing his soon-to-be wife didn’t like going big. They had a mutual agreement to go small so they could get a nice home for the two of them with a couple of extra rooms and nice furniture. 

Maggie was kind, her husband would constantly tell her when she asked. And Maggie would always say he was, too, the man she was going to call her husband rather soon the kindest man she knew. The man’s parents had immigrated just two years before he was born, raising their son on kind values, promising that they’d never let their son go through the same rough shit they had encountered. And Maggie, whose parents were Italian, father being the second generation of immigrants and her mother the first, were never exactly the kindest. If Maggie were truthful, she was glad they had passed and only missed the idea of them more than anything. She never wanted anyone to feel as shitty as they made her feel. 

The snow was falling thickly as the two adults moved their furniture into their home. It wasn’t much, just a table, a few chairs, a couch, and a bed, the couch and bed already having been placed inside, but it was a lot with the November’s first snow falling down on them. Maggie was yawning every few moments and Wentworth had bags under his eyes, the clock creeping up on the number three. Wentworth didn’t want to give up on the furniture, yet, though, and neither was Maggie. They wanted everything mostly ready to move into by the next week so that they could get the marriage done and go about their lives as quickly as possible. 

However, Maggie stops when she hears a sob, the bit of the table she was holding suddenly stopping, Wentworth still moving in time for the table to nail both of them in the stomach. Went frowned, asking, “Maggie, you okay?” 

Maggie frowns, looking at the woods where they sat, only about a yard’s length away from their home. It was unmistakable, the soft cries of a child leaving them. She doesn’t hesitate to drop her end of the table, moving towards them with a deep fear rooted inside her stomach, an impending anxiety there. “Went, honesty,” she quietly calls, “Get a flash-” She doesn’t get to finish as someone runs into her, slamming into her own body so rough that she falls to the ground, her fiance yelling something along the lines of  _ Maggie. _

The woman can’t help but frown from what had collided with her, the being pulling back. A child sat in her lap, shaking as soon as they saw her. They stumble backward, flinching away from her tentative look like she was going to slap them. Their nose is blood, soft features covered with the orange smear that came with blood. Even from her spot at the edge of the forest with only the porch and living room light being her guide, she can see a blindfold over their eyes, covering their vision as a sob falls from their lips. Their breathing is too quick and Maggie can feel her nerves heighten at the lack of anything outside of a hospital gown and windbreaker on them. 

“Honey, hey, hey, what’s going on,” Maggie whispers, keeping her voice down. 

The child hiccups, lunging forward and wrapping their too-thin arms around her waist, a soft plea of,  _ “Help me, please,” _ leaving them. Their voice is too quiet and it sounds like it’s the first they’ve spoken in years. Their holds are cold, even over the jacket Maggie has on. For some reason, she feels her arms tighten around the child, hugging back as she pulls them up into her lap, standing up herself. 

“It’s alright,” Maggie soothes as she stands, rubbing their back, “I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise.” 

Wentworth frowns at Maggie when he sees her carrying a child with her, but seems to already be pulling a couple of boxes out of his truck, digging around for the one labeled  _ bedroom. _ It would have blankets in it, Maggie’s sure. She slips inside the house, the table on the porch sitting there for now. Her fiance was stumbling back into the home moments later, two boxes in his arms.  _ Bedroom _ and  _ bathroom _ sat in big, black letters on each of them, now getting placed by the door. Wentworth shut it with his foot. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Maggie whispers, “My husband is going to give you a blanket, okay?” The kid nods against her shoulder. “He’s got to open the box to get it, but it might be a little loud. Is that okay, too?” They nod again, which is all Wentworth needs to see to know it was okay. He tried to be quiet, Maggie’s sure, but the child still flinches pretty hard when he has to rip the tape. She does her best to soothe them, making sure to keep the blanket wrapped tight as soon as she’s handed the fluffy thing. The child wraps it tightly around themselves without a second thought. 

Maggie doesn’t do much for a while, just sitting there and holding them while Wentworth cleans the blood off of the child, both making sure to say what they’re doing before they do it. The child doesn’t fight back and their sobs eventually subside. Maggie doesn’t say anything until she’s sure they’re warm and somewhat clean, bundled up in the blanket. Slowly, she pulls away, the child following suit. 

“I’m Maggie,” she says slowly, “And that’s my fiance, Wentworth.” 

They nod, softly saying, “I’m Seventeen.” 

“Your name is Seventeen,” Wentworth questions. 

They nod, slowly, humming, “Mhm.” 

Maggie frowns at that and lets out a shaky sigh. “Has… Has someone been hurting you, Seventeen? No offense, you look a little rough.” 

They frown. “Papa is…  _ not nice,” _ they slowly say. They pull off the blindfold, eyes open wide. 

It takes everything in Maggie not to scream right then and there, though her husband flinches away. Deep scars sit over their eyes, a milky white overtaking a lot of their eyes. It’s burn scars, ones Maggie’s only seen at work when the severest of situations happen. She’s seen it once and seen the after-effects. It was never pretty, sure, but this had either been a severe burn or a severely fucked up treatment. 

“Oh, honey,” she whispers softly, “Did Papa do this to you?’ 

They shake their head. Maggie’s brows furrow, the freckles across their skin seemingly dancing with the movement. “Papa told Twenty-Two to get a power or he’d hurt her,” they whisper, “she has acid. “ They run a finger over the scar, frowning. “Papa wanted to hurt me.” 

Maggie isn’t sure what to do, but her husband seems to be hellbent on not letting harm come to the child, immediately taking up, “Well, we won’t let Papa hurt you, okay?” They nod. “I’m your dad now, okay?’ 

Maggie surpresses a smile, though the child seems to be confused. “Dad,” they repeat, head cocked to the side in a puppy dog sort of way. 

The Italian woman nods. “Yeah, it’s like a Papa but…  _ nice _ and really loving. They’re kind and they protect you, okay?” 

“Are you my Dad, too?” 

“No, no, I’ll be your mom,” she says, accepting that Wentworth wasn’t going to let the child go under any circumstances. If that man wanted something, he’d freeze Hell over for it. It was why she agreed to go on a date with him in the first place after he had told her parents to shove it. “It’s like a girl version of a Dad.” 

THe child nods, slowly accepting the words. “Okay,” they reply. 


	2. Nov 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ERRORS ARE MADE, THE NOTES WILL CORRECT AND CLARIFY, THEY NEED TO BE READ TO UNDERSTAND

Richie scoffs as Eddie jumps over the slippery rocks. Typically, the boy would never do something so stupid, but Richie had assured him he wouldn’t fall with the comment,  _ Bet you won’t do it, Eds. _ Eddie had promptly gotten pissed off at the nickname and started moving with his middle finger pointed at the boy as he did so. Richie knew he wouldn’t fall. Eddie was far too careful, far too wary of every single movement and possible slip up. Richie watched the boy move, Stanley following each of his movements without a single fuss. Richie trudged through the water, shoes held in his hands as Bill took his way around the small dip near the entrance of the sewers, easily avoiding the water the three others had gone through. 

“Fucker,” Eddie yelps, “Why didn’t you tell us there was a way to go around?” 

Richie laughs. “You didn’t ask!” The boy had explored this area two days before when Bill was sick, Eddie was grounded, and Stan was shunned to some church even his father insisted they do, though it made sense with him being the Rabbi and all. He had seen it in one of his dreams and it felt like it would be important in the future, though, honestly, Richie didn’t feel so well standing beside it alone, or even now. 

The three in front of him know about the tattoo on his wrist and the scars over his eyes. They don’t know about the origin of it or the powers behind it. What they do, for sure, know is that Richie’s freckles glow when he gets particularly happy like the day he had been  _ officially _ adopted as Richard Seventeen Tozier as their own. That had been years ago. Richie had been with them a year, adjusting to life like  _ that. _ He was a motor-mouthed child that was thriving off of the Toziers, even if it had taken him a while to finally learn how to talk “somewhat normal,” as Eddie had said. They met when Richie went to school for the first time and Richie had been “too formal,” though Stan had appreciated the formality then. Bill had struggled along after Richie had started glowing in the bathroom because Eddie had kissed his cheek before leaving, though Bill had screamed immediately after. 

“So, what,” Stan asks with a raised brow, “This is one of your dream places?” 

Richie shrugs, smiling. “It just looked like a cool place to hang out,” he says as he starts to walk along the river’s bank, rocks stabbing at his feet. The water was chilly, though, honestly, Richie liked it as he stuck his feet in and sat down. The water runs over his skin and he relaxes against it. “Why don’t you guys sit down? It’s really nice.” 

Eddie sneers at that, disgust written over his features. “You’re going to get fucking sick,” he angrily yells at the other. 

Richie can barely contain his angry, “What, your Mommy tell you that?” He wasn’t angry at Eddie, but at Sonia for her shitty parenting that prevented him from seeing his friend for weeks at a time during the summer. “It’s not that fucking bad, anyway. It’s not even chilly!” Just to prove his point, he splashes a handful onto Eddie, listening to the disgusted scream. “It’s just like the quarry!” 

“Is not,” Eddie screams back/ 

“Th - They lead to - o - to the same pla - ace,” Bill comments in support of Richie, who immediately sticks his tongue out at Eddie. 

Stan sits beside Richie, pants pulled up so no water gets on them. Richie was confused as to why Stan didn’t just wear shorts, but the boy had his own quirks. Who was Richie to bitch about it? He wore shorts all year long, Winter included. He had spent most of his winters sicker than a dog, though that really was his own fault since he didn’t learn the first time after he got the flu and a stomach bug at the same time. He runs his eyes up and down the other’s frame, smiling at the boy who had sat on a rock so he didn’t get dirty. 

“Stan the Man,” Richie bellows, “always supporting the lovely Trashmouth!” 

“I’m not supporting you,” Stan scoffs, “I’m just enjoying the water.” 

The other two slowly join, although they’re sure to get mouthy about it, Eddie especially. Despite that, the four sit together, Richie’s skin glowing happily. That is until the second he’s not sitting beside them and is instead sitting in the darkness. 

Richie doesn’t know what happened. One second, he was sitting with Eddie, Stanley, and Bill, smiling as they joked about fucking Eddie’s mom. Or, well,  _ Richie _ was joking about it while Eddie got pissed off and the other two rolled their eyes or made their own jokes to go in. Richie was glad either of the two boys sat around him so Eddie didn’t tackle him and kill him on the spot. That would be an unfortunate end. However, the very next second, he was on the ground, coughing violently as his nose bleed. 

“Stan,” he yells as soon as he gets his bearings, coughing finally stopping. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be here again. Was ever single night terror predicting his future not enough on him? “Eddie! Bill!” His desperate screams go unheard, though he sees another figure standing before him. 

A monster presses against a wall, struggling as it screeches. Richie’s seen them before in a million different nightmares and a million different face to face ones. Three boys stand around the creature, gasping for air, panic clear. For some reason, Richie feels like he should know them, or at least the one of them that looks strikingly similar to himself. Despite that, he doesn’t and it makes him feel icky. 

A girl walks behind them, Richie turning towards her. He  _ knows _ her, recognizes her from when the three years before. Their rooms were far apart, but they both had to sit in that water chamber and got paired up every once in a while, though Richie never saw more than a glance of her in passing. He barely recognizes her but his mind flashes with a million memories at one. 

“Eleven,” he asks, voice broken. 

“Eleven, stop,” says the boy that looks like Richie, though Richie quickly decides his hair is shitty and decides that he’ll call him Shitty hair. He runs after Eleven, though the girl just jerks her arm back, sending him flying with it. 

She walks forward, silently moving against the beast’s squealing. She looks back, looking at the group. From where Richie stands, it almost looks like she’s looking at him. The next words would forever haunt him, though they shouldn’t. It’s weak and too soft and almost unheard.

“Goodbye, Mike.” 

Her hand bends and slowly destroys the monster, her hand bending and leaving dust in its place and the screams to echo. Richie’s hand presses to the wall as he hears the boys behind him scream her name. It’s not the end. Richie can feel it deep within him. His insides churn and he almost vomits from it, tears pooling. This was just the beginning for both of them. 

He leans up, sharply letting out a choking sob as he’s suddenly faced with daylight once again. He cries as his three friends hold him, their grips tight. Richie couldn’t calm down, even after his face was wiped of his blood and his tears had stopped. The crying only started up again when his friends brought him home and his parents asked if something had happened. Richie couldn’t tell them no matter how hard he tried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick clarification, a lot of this is based off of the og/90 miniseries it, age especially  
Richie is nine. he's nine. 
> 
> Everyone else is eleven by then. Bev and Bill are a grade above everyone else, Richie is under them, as his birthday falls on March 6th, 1978. However, the Stranger Things cast is also set to Bill/Bev's age ranges, which I know fucks with a lot of things but this is my story and Richie is the baby, okay? 
> 
> Also, I know I've fucked up on timing in this chapter, as I can't beta it for the moment (my shit if fucking itself over and keeps crashing) so it's going to sit as is. 
> 
> Richie has been with the Toziers since he was 7, meaning almost 2 years for them. yes, he had the flu the first time he was with them and yes he met the og Losers and befriended them very short notice and fuck the summer part because I'm a messy writer and this shit HAS to be clarified but I literally cannot write it right now.


	3. Overstimulation for the first time in a long time now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie faces some overstimulation and panic

_ “Seventeen,” snaps the man who always seemed to snap. Seventeen liked to call him Ick, as Eight once had. He doesn’t know what happened to Eight after Seven disappeared. He hadn’t seen Eight in so long… He worries for her.  _

_ Seventeen turns towards the man. He stands to Papa’s left, even taller than him with muscles. He was meaner than Papa, always leaving bruises on Seventeen’s body when he had done something wrong that Papa didn’t like. There are bruises on his wrists now from moments before when he had refused to try to bend the can Papa told him to. Seventeen knows that isn’t his power. He’s not like Eleven, can’t bend it at it his will. He’s not like Twenty, who can control metal. He’s not like Eight, who can give an illusion like she was bending it.  _

_ “Listen,” the man snaps again, glaring at the child.  _

_ Seventeen nods, though his eyes are focused on the clock. The clock was ticking down. It would be moments before the wall would explode, Forty-Three finally discovering his power. He had seen it before, seen it in dreams for years now. He didn’t know Forty-Three personally, but he knew him in passing, the angry blonde always managing to be paired up with Forty-Four, who was going to be “normal” for years. Seventeen feels back for the boy who’s treatment was only going to get worse from here on out, but he knows Forty-Four will get out and get the best of treatment before he turns fifteen.  _

The bathroom door gets a soft knock, Richie turning his attention towards it, head jerking to the side. Stan’s unsteady voice softly pipes up, “Misses Tozier said dinner is ready, Rich.” It’s still wary. 

“Okay,” Richie says back, though he barely hears his own voice. His fingers grip tight at the sides of the sink, digging at the porcelain. It wasn’t like he could damage it. It only seemed to damage him, making his fingers ache. 

He looked like a mess. He had just gotten dressed after taking a long, hot shower. It was the kind that he had learned to limit himself to once a month, one of those super long ones that his mom liked to take with candles and bubble bath and whatever else that Richie made sure not to interrupt because he hated disturbing Maggie to begin with. It kind of burned his skin, leaving it rosy, but it wasn’t anything harsh like the time he had learned lightbulbs are actually very hot and should never be touched. He had a third degree burn scar on his left arm from the second week of officially being a Tozier. 

His freckles glow a gentle blue, lighting up the room with the soft hues. His hair is a mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. Blood dribbles down the boy’s face, dripping from his chin to the sink. He turns on the water and quickly washes off the blood, not wanting to hear his mother’s concern or really anyone else’s when he finally gets down the bottom of the steps. He throws on his clothes with the lights turned off and his eyes shut tight. It had become a habit. He didn’t like seeing the scars from all the times Papa had tried to see if putting him in near-death situations would activate his powers. It never had, but he always got to see them beforehand and prepare himself for them, so that was a twisted plus that looked more like a division symbol in Richie’s mind. 

He stumbles down the stairs quickly, making his way to the table quickly. He doesn’t want to eat, though. His stomach hurts but his head hurts about a million times worse. He didn’t like using his powers, didn’t like getting glimpses of the future. He doesn’t even get to his chair before Wentworth is saying something. Richie doesn’t even register the words, just taking his seat. 

“Richie,” someone suddenly snaps, making the boy turn his head upwards, sharp and tense. He had flinched, his fingers not tightly gripping at the fork. He didn’t even know when he had picked it up, but it was now between his fingers, wrapped tightly in a position he would only use to write with. 

Eddie had been talking to him, saying something, but Richie hadn’t even been listening. His personal little bubble felt like it had been shattered, a sledgehammer colliding with the surface and throwing the boy into toxic air, the last safe space in the world exploding into a million pieces. It takes him another moment to even realize that Eddie is talking to him, as well as Bill. It’s overwhelming. Richie brings his knees to his chest and repeats their words in his head, trying his best to get them to stick. 

_ Nothing  _ sticks. It’s in one ear and out the other, erased like the nine-year-old hadn’t even been listening in the first place. He was trying his hardest to retain the information. 

“I - I can’t…” His words are stumbling over each other, not fully making sense to himself as they move a million miles a second in his mind. He wants to sob as he tries his best to think out the sentence so he doesn’t skip words. He had a tendency to do so when he got overwhelmed. “I’m listening,” he slowly supplies, “But it’s too… Too much…” He runs his hands through his hair, teeth gritting. “Please…” 

After a moment, Maggie softly asks, “Please what, Richie?” She keeps her words slow, trying to keep it simple as she can. She thinks the only way it could have been simpler was to not add his name at the end. 

“D - Don’t know,” he whines, shutting his eyes tightly and pressing his palms to his ears. Tears burn his eyes. _ “S’too much.”  _

Wentworth moves slowly to his side, kneeling beside the other but not touching him. “Hey, Richie, it’s okay,” he comforts in a soft voice as whimpers leave his son, tears falling from waxy eyes. “We can stay quiet.” 

Richie shakes his head. “No,” he whimpers again, moving his hands so they pull at his hair before digging into his scalp. “Quiet is  _ bad.” _

“We can turn on the radio and play it quietly, then?” 

He shakes his head again. “There’s too - too many interruptions.” He wipes at his face, opening his eyes and sniffling. Richie doesn’t know what to do. His head  _ hurts _ and the day hurts, too. He wants it to  _ end. _

“What’d you need, buddy?” 

“Eleven.” 

Wentworth frowns, humming out a confused little noise. 

“Eleven is in  _ trouble,” _ he says as slowly as he can, though he wants her. He wants her  _ safe. _ “She’s in trouble. Mike, he’s in trouble, too. Something  _ bad _ is happening.” 

“What’s wrong with Eleven?”

“It’ll come back,” Richie whines. “She’s gonna get  _ hurt. _ It’s gonna hurt her.” His hands tug at black strands, pulling them out at certain places. He doesn’t know how to  _ explain it. _ “There are- There are two other boys and the monster is gonna haunt them. They’re gonna get  _ hurt. _ Papa’s gonna  _ hurt them. _ They aren’t safe!” He starts fanning his face. It feels too hot in the room all of a sudden. 

Wentworth taps his fingers on the table, carrying a slow beat that Richie tries to listen to as his father talks. “Richie, is there any way we can  _ help _ Eleven?” 

Richie shakes his head.  _ “No.” _ No, no,  _ they _ can’t, but Richie is sure he can, maybe, if he’s strong enough. He sniffles and his nails dig at his arms, scratching roughly at the skin. It takes him a second to realize what he’s doing, pulling his own arms away from his skin. He doesn’t think out what he’s doing, running up to his room and slamming the door shut behind himself as the tears flow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give a few bits about overstimulation related to PTSD when trauma resurfaces, as is to happen with reminders of said trauma. Overstimulation tends to (unfortunately) happen a lot during this, so I decided to write some of the things I, personally, do when overstimulated. Scratching skin, pulling hair, generally being too rough with my own body as my unconscious attempt to ground myself without actually realizing until this very moment where I am now discussing this in notes. 
> 
> Now, I'm writing this from the point of view as someone who has trauma but has never been to therapy but has been told multiple times that I should see a therapist, so, to each their own, ya know? 
> 
> Also, Forty-Three and Forty-Four are based on Midoriya and Bakugo from Boku No Hero Academia and Twenty isn't really based off of anyone but gives me big Toph from Avatar vibes so

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna do this one! I promise! 
> 
> Here's my discord server!  
https://discord.gg/eGkwayy


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